


Imago Dei

by electricskeptic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot, Religious Themes & References, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-27
Updated: 2010-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricskeptic/pseuds/electricskeptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is built for worship, and Dean Winchester is not God.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imago Dei

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime vague S5.

This is not the first time. It is not even the tenth time, but it is new enough to still be something raw between them, and Castiel still marvels at it; that he is _allowed_ to partake in this fleshly communion.

The first time, Dean had gripped him by the shoulders and demanded eye contact, a worried line gathering between his brows. He had asked, _is this okay? are you sure?_ and somewhat ludicrously, _aren’t there rules against this kind of thing?_

Castiel had smothered his amusement against the hollow of Dean’s cheek. He is an outcast from his home, a rebel; he has murdered his own kin; he has been hunted and tortured and killed in the name of what Dean has asked of him, but _this_ act is the one to draw any kind of consternation.

For better or worse, he has free will now. To be able to do what he wants with it is kind of the whole point.

Castiel is built for worship, and it is a task that he performs well, in the press of his lips against the hollow of Dean’s throat, the bracket of his hands around Dean’s hips. They are pushed nakedly together, a tangle of limbs, as unashamed as Adam and Eve before they were tempted by the serpent. Castiel remembers the ancient texts, their words engraved on the inside of his skull -- _my beloved is unto me as a cluster of henna in the vineyards of En-gedi_ \-- and thinks privately that they do not do justice to this.

But still he kisses Dean with the kisses of his mouth, imparting confessions to the secret places between his teeth. He follows the line of Dean’s neck with his tongue, tastes salt and motel soap and a faint trace of gun oil. It is human, yes, so very human, but most of all it is _Dean_ , and Castiel cannot get enough. He touches Dean as though he is something both sacred and profane; face, shoulders, hips, cock, thighs. His fingers against this mortal flesh are reverent.

Uriel would weep for him.

Dean shudders at the feel of Castiel’s open mouth against his side, over the place where the sigils are etched into the cage of his ribs; his muscles jump and twitch as Castiel grazes his stomach with lips and teeth and tongue, anointing him in saliva. He gasps and sighs and moans when Castiel moves between his legs, spouting sacrilegious little prayers.

Castiel takes Dean into his mouth without hesitation, tasting the head of his cock before swallowing him down all the way, hands flexing tighter around thigh muscles that tense up beneath his touch. Dean always holds back at first, until Castiel reminds him that he cannot possibly be hurt by this, even as weakened as he is now. Then he thrusts into Castiel’s mouth with relentless abandon, fingers twisting in his hair, hitting the back of his throat repeatedly. He is glorious in his wantonness.

Castiel brings him to the very edge of completion, sucking and licking at hardened, blood-hot flesh until Dean is trembling and panting beneath him, unstable groans shaking from his lips. Only then does he pull off, ignoring the needy whine of protest to bring himself face-to-face with Dean once again. He would have once called this man his Father’s most perfect masterpiece, but he knows better now than to give God full credit. He looks at Dean and sees the blend of Mary Campbell and John Winchester, melding together to produce something uniquely _Dean_ , the random sequence of bases in every helical twist of his DNA shared by no other being in the universe. Not even Sam.

Castiel knows this body better than he knows his own, having memorized every aspect of it -- from the exact depth of that little dip in the center of Dean’s clavicle to the precise viridian hue of his irises -- in order to knit it back together in the grave, his one perfect act of re-creation.

He lifts a hand to trace Dean’s lips, presses two fingers against the seam and Dean parts for him instantly, drawing him in. This is not the first time, but Castiel still feels awe at the trust implied. A shadow of his former self he may be, but he could still destroy this human with a thought if he so desired, and yet Dean trusts him. Dean has been broken and abused and degraded in unspeakable ways thanks to his time in the Pit, and yet he is still able to show trust in Castiel.

It is not blind faith. It is something that has been painstakingly earned after months of trial and error, death and resurrection, betrayal and sacrifice. It is a mutual dependence that has been cultivated and allowed to grow in dreams and nightmares, in punches thrown at the eleventh hour and in tearstained hospital bed confessions, in the cruel punishments of both Heaven and Hell.

Castiel withdraws his fingers from Dean’s mouth, leaving a spit-slick trail against his cheek as he does so. His eyes never stray from Dean’s face, watching his flush deepen and his lashes flicker as the first finger pushes into where he is already partially stretched and swollen from the last time. Even so, Castiel takes his time, preparing Dean slowly and reducing him to a writhing, pleading mass of need even as his own body thrums with desperation.

When he finally slides in, the pressure is indescribable; tight and hot, gripping him from all sides, and if it doesn’t quite fill the hollow space inside him where Heaven used to be, it’s the closest fit he’s found so far. Dean breathes out his name on a shaky exhale: _Cas_ , bastardized and blasphemous, but Castiel likes the way it rolls off his tongue, heavy with affection and lust and something else, something _more_ that they do not dare put a name to.

He pulls back out, adjusts the angle of his hips before sliding in again and Dean makes a choked sound, arching off the bed as Castiel hits his prostate. _Want to see you,_ he says, and Castiel closes his eyes, wills his wings to manifest on the physical plane. They are more representative than anything else, his true form still something beyond Dean’s comprehension that would blind and consume him were he to look upon it, but the contrast of flight feathers against Jimmy Novak’s shoulder blades seems to satisfy him, so Castiel indulges. As an aspect of his true self, the wings are more reactive than his human flesh, and when Dean sinks his hands into them it sends white-hot bolts of pleasure shooting up and down Castiel’s spine.

He buries his face in the sweat-damp curve of Dean’s shoulder, tongue flicking out to taste the sharpness there; whispers benedictions in counterpoint to Dean’s continuous stream of profanity. He is already close, warmth pooling at the base of his stomach with every roll of his hips, and he pulls back again, wanting Dean to finish first. He kisses the shuttering eyelids, silently reciting ancient blessings that he would never voice aloud for the knowledge that it would make Dean squirm with discomfort. He grasps Dean’s arm where his own handprint is burned into the skin -- it is a possessive touch, greedy and covetous, but he cannot help himself.

Dean doesn’t seem to mind being claimed in such a way at any rate, hands tightening around the arches of bone at the top of Castiel’s wings, broken whimpers spilling from his throat as primary feathers trace teasing patterns over his skin. He wraps his legs around Castiel’s waist, crushing their bodies even closer together, friction and heat building slick between them. Castiel feels Dean’s cock trapped against his belly, leaving wet trails of fluid where it drags across his skin, and he begins to stroke it in synchronization with the push-pull of their stuttering rhythm, wringing out more euphoria with every twist of his hand.

The amulet is a weight around his neck, solid and cool -- always cool -- against his skin, swaying in time with his thrusts. The first time, Dean had brushed his fingers over the burnished metal with a smirk, murmured something about ‘promise rings’ that Castiel had not understood.

He still searches for his Father, in shifting sands and among the peaks of the Himalayas, but he no longer expects the talisman to flare warm where it touches his flesh. An angel without purpose is a dangerous thing -- their encounter with Gabriel proved as much -- but Castiel is losing his with every day that passes.

He thinks he comes the closest to finding it again in moments like this; Dean stretched out beneath him, trembling and alive, mouth gaping and head flung back as he spills hot and wet over Castiel’s hand. Dean’s voice catching on nonsense syllables is a cracked hallelujah, and when Castiel’s own orgasm steals his breath away, it is revelation.

Afterwards, he licks away the evidence of Dean’s release where it has splattered against his thighs, his stomach, his chest. Cleanses his body the way he once cleansed his soul, when he raised him from perdition. Dean groans and twitches at his touch, oversensitive still. Breathes, _God, Cas, the things you do to me._

Castiel appreciates the sentiment, and echoes it.

Dean Winchester is not God. He is not even close. He is broken and flawed and human. He belongs to Heaven, but he has tasted Hell; he is a righteous man who lies and cheats and _sins_ , who lives for violence and bloodshed, clutching at life with the skin of his teeth, half-drunk on the adrenaline that pushes through his veins.

In this, they are not so different. They are both war-torn and battle-weary. They are both of them holy and outcast, soldiers abandoned by their fathers to a fight they cannot hope to win.

Dean Winchester is not God, but God is nowhere to be found. So Castiel will take this broken, flawed, _human_ thing instead, hold the pieces together until he has nothing left to give.

This is how he knows that he is falling, but the journey down is sweet.

 _[end.]_

 **Notes:** _Imago dei_ = ‘image of God’.

 _“my beloved is unto me as a cluster of henna in the vineyards of En-gedi”_ is a line from the Song of Songs. _“He kisses… with the kisses of his mouth”_ is paraphrased from the same text.


End file.
